


It was just a phase

by Muspell



Series: Leather and Metal Series [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell
Summary: There it is, a picture of a young Otabek Altin leaned onto a cramped kitchen counter, definitely less bulked up and sweaty, as if he just came back from training, his hair in straight dark strands marking his jawline, yet shorter on the back of his head and... Is that a dog collar?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nagyerdei Korisok (http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html) for their tricktionary they linked to me to complete this fic. i know I can't do justice to the awesomeness of those moves through my descriptions but I did try my best. 
> 
> Also, Otabek is skating to Rammstein - Sonne

  
  


Ok, so MAYBE he was expecting to see him before the competition started. Maybe he does miss him, and all the photos, and texts, and videocalls during the past two years weren’t enough, since they have only seen each other during the GPF competitions. Maybe he has planned to appear out of nowhere and jump into his arms and send him ass first against the ice, and laugh at his face. 

Maybe he’s more eager to see him after such a long time than to skate. 

But maybe that’s why seeing him talking to someone else,  _ smiling _ at someone else felt like a stab through his heart. He never smiles at anyone. Otabek’s usually uncomfortable with  random people walking up to him, or standing too close, yet he’s smiling to some guy that is holding his wrist. And he looks comfortable. He never does. What the hell?

He feels a rush of anger down his spine, like a flame bursting inside of him; he wants to break something. He knows he can’t. Instead he just shouts at the two idiots so they realize he’s standing  _ right there. _

“The plane trip here was shit.” Yuri huffs and glides towards them, casually stopping right in between of both skaters. “And who would you be?”

Leo offers him a hand as invitingly as he can; he always does. “My name is Leo de la Iglesia, I’ll be competing against you two!” Yuri is not so easily convinced by a smile and a polite gesture: he  looks at the hand just to turn to where his friend is standing, blank expression as usual. 

“Skate with me, Beka, I’m sore all over from the shit plane seat.” Otabek can do nothing but follow, as he glances at Leo; only a handful of people could have read that look, but Yuri knows it’s a silent apology. 

Yuri skates lazily repeating the separate figures of his programs as if he was on auto-pilot, his mind wandering elsewhere. He feels his friend’s eyes on him, and every time he doesn’t he looks for them, but escapes when their glances meet. It’s stupid, he knows it is. It’s childish and overreacting, and fucking stupid. Beka is allowed to have more friends, why shouldn’t he? Sure, he doesn’t remember that he’s ever mentioned a Leo, but that doesn't mean he was hiding him, right? He could have just forgotten. Or he wasn’t in any of the stories he was told. Or, or…

Fuck.  He can see Yakov looking down at him; as soon as they make eye contact, Yuri knows that his coach can see his head is elsewhere. He just hopes the old man doesn't ask where.

He approaches his coaches waiting for him at the side of the rink, while he watches Otabek doing the same through the corner of his eye. He listens patiently to what they have to say. He tries to engrave the words into his memory so he won’t fuck up his short program in two days.

All he can think about is  _ that damn smile. _

He steals glances at him just to see if he would look for that other guy at some point. He’s almost hoping to cross glances with the Leo guy, waiting for him to reject a night out or a motorcycle ride to go away with someone else, just so he can have a motive to yell at him. He’s furious. Enraged. His fist is shaking by his side, nails digging deep into the palm of his hand, while he toys with his hair with the other hand so no one will film his stupid excuse of a tantrum and broadcast it for the world to see. 

He’s furious and embarrassed. Furious that Otabek keeps glancing at him like he’s a crystal figurine about to break, furious at Yakov and Lilia who just won’t shut up, furious at  _ Leo _ , who just… just… Fuck, just shows up out of nowhere to take his friend away! 

Furious at himself for making such a fuss about nothing. He knows it’s nothing. Why doesn’t  the pain just fade away? 

He hates this. The whole friendship thing is absurd, if it’s gonna hurt like this every time. He feels his breathing getting shallow. He feels ice running through his veins. He feels his body getting lighter, his vision blurred. He leans on his coaches as they drape his jacket over his shoulders.  He’s escorted, almost dragged to his room. His mind is smothered by the image of Otabek smiling at someone. He never does, his softer expressions are meant for  _ Yuri alone _ . What a silly thought. It still feels so real. He can hear Yakov saying something about stress and the flight. He can only think of Beka and his Leo. Of Beka chatting with someone. Not waiting for  _ him.  _ . 

Yuri wishes it was just that, as he turns his head to look at his friend, staring at his direction while being scolded in anything but a delicate manner. Anyone would say Altin’s sporting his usual stoic expression, completely blank, but he knows better: the slight frown, the mouth pressed into a thin line, the stiffness on his shoulders. He has something on his mind. He’s worried. 

And that realization does nothing to alleviate the pressure on the blond’s chest, the stinging in his eyes.  _ This is all because of you: you did this to him. You and your fucking idiocy _ . 

He lets himself get carried away towards his room and sits on his bed until the old couple leaves, the door clicking softly behind them. 

He crumbles.

He tries to stop it, he does, but the minute he’s finally alone he feels a tidal wave inside of him, trying to get out, as if his chest is about to burst open. It starts as a gentle tremble on his pout, muffled by teeth digging sharply into his lower lip, and a soft blur in the corner of his eye. At some point he finds himself punching his pillow in fury, tears running in deep streaks down his cheeks, screaming at the world, at himself, at  _ him. _ Otabek doesn't have the right to feel bad, not because of Yuri, not because he’s a crybaby who can’t deal with such a simple thing. He buries his face forcefully into the mattress embarrassed of his own voice hiccuping in between sobs. 

He can’t do this, this is not what Yuri Plisetsky is meant to do. It can’t be. “The eyes of a soldier”, right? A soldier doesn’t hide and weep, and he certainly isn’t going to either. 

He goes to the bathroom to angrily scrub every trace of his meltdown away from his face. He will do this. He can do this. They’re friends and friends talk to each other, right?.

He puts his jacket on, tries to fix his hair a bit but fails miserably,  it was a disaster to start with so he doesn’t dwell much on it, and goes to bang on Otabek’s door. 

He hopes he’s just imagining everything: maybe he is as difficult to read as people think. Maybe he just got it all wrong, Otabek is fine, there’s no harm done from a bit of a cold shoulder. He’s tougher than that, he must have noticed it was completely immature of him. It’s his friend after all, he should be used to tantrums at this point. The door opens. 

Otabek stands warily at the door, half expecting him, half surprised he actually made it. Droplets of water are trickling down from his recently washed hair to the curve of his neck to tangle on the sparse dark hair on his chest. He starts wondering if he always opens the door bare chested or it it’s only when Leo was around. Yuri feels the fire rise up as soon as he pictures him again, hand grasping lightly Otabek’s arm, smiling with him. 

Yuri turns his gaze to his friend’s face again to see he’s been staring, almost studying him. He wants to know what the fuck is going on, too, but the blond can’t give him a straight answer. 

“Well?” Yuri sounds exasperated, but then again, he is. He gets in as soon as Otabek moves from the doorway and sits on the bed, listening to the bed springs whine under his weight. The older boy doesn’t move from where he’s standing, just closes the door and leans onto it without saying a word. His eyes stay fixated on him: he’s waiting for a cue.

“Go on, then. Tell me about him.”

He lifts his gaze to look at him strangely, a brow twitched upwards. Hasn’t he noticed before? “Is this about Leo?” 

There it is. The embarrassment again. Yes. he knows it’s stupid, but it bothers him anyways and he isn’t gonna keep it to himself. He did it with everything before Otabek came along, but now that he’s here, he’s supposed to help with these… things. Right?

“Yes, it’s about Leo. So tell me about him.” Otabek looks like he’s about to protest, opens his mouth to say something but Yuri cuts him short. “Don’t judge. Just… tell me.” His voice suddenly feels really small, as if he was begging for protection, for comfort. “Bear with me.”

It takes him a while. A couple of seconds pass in charged silence between them, and Yuri starts fidgeting in his seat, thinking seriously about dropping all facade of determination and just running the fuck away. Right the second he breaks eye contact and leans forward to get up, the mattress shifts from the added weight. Otabek sits besides him, back against the bed frame, watching his every move. 

A soldier doesn’t move back from the fight. Yuri sits up cross legged on the bed and looks at the older boy’s eyes: he’s ready for whatever blow he’s about to receive.

He isn’t expecting something like this. 

“Leo was a roommate of mine when I was fifteen. We shared a rink.” Otabek’s speech is quiet and collected, as if he was trying to comfort his friend. Yuri keeps glaring at him just in case his mixed feelings dare bubble up through the expressions on his face: he’s struggling to keep his gaze fixed on the other’s face and not the way the sunlight peering through the curtains reflected on his bare chest as he spoke, until a sudden thought crossed his mind. 

Did he share a room with some other guy…. Like that? Forgetting to fucking dress? Is this something they used to do?

Why the fuck is this so important to him? They’re friends, it’s not like he can forbid him to do anything… or anyone… And what the hell? Isn’t Beka straight after all? So what’s the big deal? It’s not like they have been talking about it, but he assumes… He must be. Right?

“And what’s with him? He was grabbing you.” He sounds offended, angry. He knows that’s not exactly how he feels. Not about Otabek at least.

“He tried to call my attention.” Otabek looks at Yuri as if he was trying to convince him Leo wasn’t actually hurting him. “He knows I don’t really like people touching me, but-” 

“WHAT.” Yuri kneels on the bed to get closer to his friend, mouth agape as if he was suddenly speaking in any other language but Russian. “I’m all over you constantly, you never told me it makes you uncomfortable.” 

“Not you, Yura.” Otabek reaches out to cup the blond’s cheeks on his palms, his face softening in a second. “I like having you around.” 

Yuri felt his pulse rushing on his veins, echoing on his ears. He wants to reply with some sharp comment, take the subject back where it should be,  _ just tell me what is going on between you and that guy _ , but his mind suddenly goes blank, his mouth dry, his eyes wide. 

Otabek traces the boy’s jaw with his thumb, slowly, as if he is expecting a reaction. He gets one: Yuri suddenly snaps out of the spell, furiously blushing to the tip of his ears, running off from the room and slamming the door almost off of its frame while sputtering a swift  _ Ineedtogo  _  through his teeth in the process. 

He doesn’t react fast enough to follow. Or to ask. 

Yuri knows he’s crossing the line. He knows he shouldn’t. 

But he still has something he needs to find  out.

Yuri learns a very interesting piece of information after running through a hotel hallway, disheveled and still in his sweaty clothes:  the reception desk just happens to be willing to give information about the rooms of other skaters if you provide them with your room number when asking, no matter if you just crashed face first onto the desk because you needed time to arrange, or at least tuck in, the whirlwind of emotions swirling through you. And they are definitely not in order yet, but they would have to wait until after this visit. He has two days to take this awful pressure of his chest or he’s gonna fail his short program; he knows he’s too lost in his thoughts to skate as he should. 

Third floor. 314. Yuri lifts a fist to knock. It stays there. 

Is this silly? Immature? Is this gonna be bad for Beka? 

He remembers his face when he opened the door: the chocolate brown of his eyes deepened by the shadows of his furrowed brow, his lips bright red and firmly pressed as if he was scared he could have given away the way he was actually feeling. The slight calloused touch, yet oddly inviting of his fingers on Yuri’s face, so close he could see the Kazakh’s pupils dilated, his tongue playing along the edge of his teeth…

He knocks. He’s determined to end this confusing shit once and for all.

 

* * *

 

The door opens to reveal a relaxed looking guy sporting sweatpants and a shirt much too large, still wearing headphones attached to the cellphone on the waistband of his pants. 

“You’re Plisetsky, right?” The boy doesn’t seem even slightly impressed or worried about the Russian’s presence at his doorstep. “Come on in.” 

Yuri strolls in the bedroom like it is his and sits sprawled on the bed. Leo closes the door behind him to move a chair next to the bed and sit, leaning forwards, holding the phone, headphones on his hands, entangling the headphones around his fingers. “I figured you would come,” he says with a smile. 

“Huh?” Yuri doesn’t stop glaring at him, letting his disgust be known through the tone of his voice. 

“Well, yeah, I mean…. I didn’t KNOW you would come but you looked like you had something on your mind.” Leo scratches the back of his head to get rid of the awkward tension between the two; he can almost feel the glare of the blond crawling underneath his skin as it shows in the slight tremor of his body when he finally moves to shift in his seat. 

“Yeah yeah, OK…” Yuri dismisses the boy’s concern with a wave of his hand, still huffing curses under his breath, “Just tell me something.” He holds his breath for a minute trying the shake the feeling that he  _ shouldn’t be asking this _ . But it’s necessary for him or else the pressure on his lungs will never go away. “What’s with you and Beka?”

“Who?”  Leo looks genuinely confused, tilting his head slightly to the side. Really? 

“Otabek Altin.”  

“Oh” He starts chuckling and starts searching for something on his phone. “We were roommates. I didn’t know he had a nickname though.” Yuri’s hands start fidgeting on the hem of his jacket, unsure of what to do. He knows that something like that should be enough to tell him they’re not  _ as close, you have nothing to worry about. _ But then again. Curiosity and cats. He needs to know just how close they are. “We had different schedules, but I think we learnt a lot from each other.” 

And that, the knot on his throat, the blur on his vision, the anger. Oh, the anger. What could he have possibly taught Beka? What did they do on their free time, sharing a room, smiling,  _ touching _ ?

Sure, he has done all of that with him before; it’s normal. People do. But the idea of someone else sleeping besides his friend makes him hiss like an encaged, wounded animal.

“What could he have possibly learnt from  _ you? _ ” He tries to hide the spite in his voice. He can’t. And the boy has noticed it, too.

“Well… Spanish.” Leo keeps smiling at him, although nervously, like he was trying to cut the tension somehow, and holds his phone out for Yuri to see. “We’ve spent some time together but he was really private, he didn’t like people close so I kept my distance.” 

Yuri falls into temptation and takes the phone from the other’s hand. There it is, a picture of a young Otabek Altin leaned onto a cramped kitchen counter, definitely less bulked up and sweaty, as if he just came back from training, his hair in straight dark strands marking his jawline, yet shorter on the back of his head. So he didn’t have the undercut back then: or course he hasn’t. He seems to be bandaging something on his right hand, a tiny speck of red staining the perfect white of the gauze merging on the sun marked  long sleeved once-black shirt to the small sparkle of…. Is that…?

“Is that a dog collar?” Yuri spews out before he can stop himself. He looks at Leo and notices he just stopped in the middle of saying something; the blond was so into analyzing the picture he forgot all about him. Leo freezes for a second, two… Then cracks out a full belly laugh at him, pointing and all. Yuri realizes just then he’s still looking at him open mouthed. But fuck, that is his cool biker friend with a  _ leather choker _ . He wants to think it’s ridiculous, but a particular warmth inside of him convinces him otherwise. He throws the phone back at its owner and crosses his legs to lean onto the hem of his jacket; he can feel his face going red but he tries to hide it under his spite. “Oi, Don’t laugh at me!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Leo brushes a tear off the corner of his eye while swiping through his phone, that had crashed onto his chest and landed on his lap. “He started wearing the choker when he went out dancing.” Yuri chokes a yelp and starts coughing.

“He went WHAT?” He feels like putting the boy’s head through the wall when he sees him repressing another chuckle. He’s having fun with his misery. Otabek dances? Since when? He always said he hated ballet. He wouldn’t lie to him, would he?

“Well, yeah… He didn’t do ballet so I took him to a few places. He taught me a few freestyle skating tricks afterwards, but…” Yuri snorts in annoyance. How could he NOT know all of this? It’s like his friend, the person he feels more at ease with, has purposely hidden a great part of his life to him.He feels betrayed at some point, hurt, and he will most definitely let him know that. Every part of it. 

But now Leo is handing his phone to him again, mumbling something about an exhibition routine.  _ Never got out, really, there was only a few of us there _ . It’s a video on YouTube, but it isn’t tagged under any skater’s name, only the rink’s.  

He presses play and the music starts to play.

It’s German and … is that an electronic beat? Otabek was slowly skating a soft step sequence until the first loud blow of the drums when he crouched and pulled his right leg up and around to [actually twist in the air](http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html#btwist) , his body almost parallel to the ice. 

He can’t seem to stop watching every second of the program. 

He can’t seem to hide the awe on his face. Mouth agape and wide eyes, completely still. 

He can’t seem to stop the squealing in every jump and particularly difficult figure. Otabek looks so effortless flowing through the ice, through the air, like he is a natural. Like he wasn’t doing this particular style because he couldn’t dance ballet at all. Like he has figured out his own way to be himself on the ice. 

He looks like… Like…

Like he did on the GPF. He looks confident. Happy. 

And he’s hid this.  Beka is going to get an earful about this.

 

* * *

 

Elevator. A door slammed on his way in. The shower turned on. 

Yuri leans on the cold tiles of the bathroom, letting the shower steam envelop his body slowly. 

Let’s face it: Leo isn’t a bad person. At all. 

He’s dull as a brick, and a bit on the extremely annoying side of the friendly spectrum. But hey, he’s not bad. Right?

He’s not…. Obnoxious or touchy or fucking stupid like a certain Canadian Yuri knows. It’s not like Otabek needs saving or anything.

And why would he? He’s an adult, he doesn’t need anyone to choose the people around him on his behalf. He can manage on his own.

Then why is it so hard for Yuri to wrap his head around that? He’s been trying so hard to find a considerable flaw in that Leo guy’s character, anything that can help him feel his anger justified.  _ Leo is not gonna hurt his Beka, but Yuri can’t stand the idea of having to share him.  _

Not only that, he’s willing to help him on this new mission the Russian has set himself. 

Yuri will see Otabek doing all of those amazing figures on the ice again. Whether the Kazakh likes it or not. 

He finishes showering and jumps onto the bed wearing a long tattered shirt that might have belonged to Viktor at some point years back and some used up sweatpants, phone in hand and already texting a certain Kazakh skater whose room he happens to have run off from.  

**“I thought of something”** The response comes in almost instantly, as if his friend is waiting for him by the phone. 

**“About the way you stormed out of my room?”** Ok, Otabek is pissed. Noted. He has seen (or really, read) him actually angry maybe… twice? And it wasn’t at him either, so he doesn’t really know what to expect. Yuri has calmed down after the actual talk to Leo and the shower but the whole just-finding-a-skating-style-you-didn’t-know-your-best-friend-could-pull-off-so-flawlessly still makes him wary. He types an answer. Deletes it. Types again. Goes back. Everything he can think of is either way too aggressive to help in any way or way too soft to be somehow honest. 

He writes again. He decides it’s the best he can come up with. Fuck it. 

**“I freaked out, OK? Just come to my room. Let’s talk?”** He’s not really sure why he added that last question mark. He’s not really sure why he kept it, having hovered over the backspace button for a while before sending the text. It makes it sound less demanding, maybe. But that’s not him. He’s loud and he knows what he wants: he has no fear of letting it be known.

Although, not in this particular moment. He wants the anxiety curling up in his stomach to just vanish once and for all and has no idea how can he manage that. Otabek has always helped him feel better, but right now, just looking at his name on the top of the phone screen makes his insides churn out of anger or embarrassment or, who knows, shame? 

He waits two minutes before unlocking the phone again. Nothing. Five more minutes. Still nothing. 

He reads his text again. It wasn’t THAT terrible, was it? It didn’t say much, just that he wants to speak to Otabek. It could have been a bit more informative probably, sure. It could have been much much worse as well. 

He slouches back into the mattress and covers his head with the first pillow he can find. There’s a knock on the door.

It could be anyone. Yakov, just checking if he’s asleep. Mila, wanting to go out and sight see. Viktor, asking him to third wheel them AGAIN so they have someone to take pictures during his and his fiancé’s date. He’s not willing to get out of the bed for them. 

“WHAT.”

He hears the door open and close with a couple of soft clicks. A shuffling of feet on the carpeted floor. Something leaning onto the dresser wooden surface in front of the bed. But no one is speaking. 

He sits up on the bed clutching the pillow onto his stomach with a loud exasperated grunt. His eyes meet a curious gaze, soft brown clashing against bright green. He swallows every swear he was about to spill out and stares, eyes widened. He thought the guy wasn’t coming but there he is. He needs to say something; tries but nothing comes out. Fuck. 

“Talk, then.” Otabek is growing impatient, and Yuri can see that in the way his fingers are drumming against his thighs, thumbs hooked onto the waistband of his pants, the way his mouth is pressed into a thin line and his brow cocked upwards. The way the silence grows charged between them, making Yuri bounce his legs against the wooden side of the bed to calm his own nerves, looking down at them. 

His mind runs through a million different possibilities to start a conversation. THE conversation.  He shuffles amongst them and can’t find one to fully covers what he’s trying to say. Specially because he has no idea of what that is. He choose the first sentence that comes into his mind that’s not  _ so blatantly embarrassing _ .

“I met Leo today.” He waits for a snarky response. A sign of hurt. A slap on the face, anything. None comes.

“So?” Otabek’s voice sounds cold, sharp. He’s always blunt with answers, sure, but there is something softer around the edges, something warmer about him when he speaks to Yuri. Yuri can’t find any trace of  that special fondness now. 

“He… showed me something.”  He searches through the sheets of the bed for his phone and types, trying to remember the title of it. It was the place’s name, maybe? What was the place…? 

He’s still scared to look straight at him, to show whatever is going on in his head: Otabek could always read him like an open book. It’s soothing not having to explain oneself, especially when one has no idea what there is to explain. Yet it can also be terrifying. He feels the weight of the other boy plopping down on the bed besides him.

“What happened, Yura?” He can hear the sweet tone again trying to comfort him, the delicate touch of Otabek’s hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t quite get the sudden change, pacing around his own words, until-

“No, it’s nothing like that! It wasn’t anything pervy or anything!” Yuri practically leaps out off the bed, leaving his friend’s hand hovering on thin air on the process. He presses over a video on his screen: he finally found it. He hands it over. 

He needs to know why Otabek’s never told him anything about this side of his skating. Fuck, about anything happening when he was 15 really. Yuri just realizes he talks so much he has never really asked how did his friend find his style, running so desperately away from ballet. He’s commited to analyze every subtle change on his face when he sees himself dancing so expertly on the ice during his teen years. 

He never guessed such scrutiny wasn’t going to be necessary. The first beats come loud from the speaker and he can hear Otabek murmur  _ oh fuck no  _ under his breath. A few seconds more and he’s resting his forehead on his hand, arm popped up on his thigh, brows deeply furrowed. A few more seconds and a low long groan of disgust comes out of him: Yuri had no idea what his friend would look like throwing a tantrum. Now he does. It’s almost funny: this stoic serious guy going all child like and embarrassed, red up to his ears, because of a video of himself. He should have tried this before, it’s hilarious.

Otabek pushes himself back against the mattress and lets out a sigh as soon as the video ends. “Why?” He sits up again and his usual blank expression is completely gone: shoulders slouching forward, furrowed brows and. Is he actually pouting? He hands back the phone with a resigned look. “Why would he even show you that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, because it’s the coolest shit ever performed? Beka!” Yuri tries to be sarcastic but the thrill in his voice is stupidly obvious: he snatches the phone to throw it away somewhere on the bed and kneels besides his friend, explaining every little thing in detail with huge exaggerated hand gestures, “The first jump is amazing! And the footwork, and the cantilever.. The fucking backflip, man! And you kicked yourself up in the air, it’s so cool!” He’s aware he’s way too close to his friend’s face, especially way too close to be this loud, but the excitement doesn’t allow him to shut up. 

“Yura,” Otabek puts his hands on the boy’s shoulder to calm him down, and presses to make him stop flailing his arms around. “Yura, half of those moves are sloppy. They’re not even in synch. It’s terrible.” Still, he smiles. He doesn’t seemed offended anymore, just…. Amused, maybe? 

“Then do it again.” A shred of terror crosses Otabek’s face. “No, I mean it! You’re awesome, you could pull those off flawlessly now. I’m sure!” Otabek starts saying something but Yuri knows it’s gonna be a negative and he won’t give him the chance. “C’mon, we can still make an exhibition if you decide now: they hardly ever do at this instances of the competition and it will bring more viewers, it’s a win-win!”

“And what do I win?” Otabek glares at him. Pauses like he’s calculating every word. “You haven’t told me what happened back in my room. You can’t fool me so easily, you know” He’s surely expecting an answer, but Yuri? Yuri sees an opportunity. 

“I’ll tell you after the exhibition.” He grins, “and if you don’t do one, then….” He starts playing with his hair, twisting a  lock on his finger and letting go, looking away, oblivious. He knows Otabek loses his focus every time he does. Yuri has partially let it grow past his shoulder blades just to mess with him. It was cute to watch, how his friend would brush his fingers through it and forget what he was saying, getting lost in it for a second. 

And it works like a charm.

“Yura, I…” Otabek huffs under his breath and his voice becomes tiny, “I don’t even have the costume-”

“I know, you left it at the dorm you shared with Leo, but he kept it.” Yuri gets rapidly off the bed and in front of his friend’s astonished gaze, almost jumping out of excitement. “So, you’re doing it, right? Are you?” 

Otabek sighs and gets up, “FINE. but you need to promise me something.” Yuri looks at him concernedly, brows slightly furrowed and hands suddenly clasped together behind his back. “Tell me everything is fine between us. AND I want an actual reward for this, I’m gonna embarrass myself on live television for you.”

“You’ll be great!!” Yuri doesn’t even think about it: he jumps into his arms, hugging him tight with arms and legs and an amazing strength for such a lean seventeen year old. The moment he realizes he backs off quickly, scratching the back of his head. “We’re fine, I’m.. I’m sorry about all that.” 

“No.” Otabek had taken a step back because of the jump, but had also kept the little smirk Yuri squeezed out of him, “I want an actual conversation.  ' Sorry ' won’t do.” He walks to the door and nods a silent goodbye to Yuri, who just lets him go back to his room. 

The door opens a second after it’s closed, and the Kazakh peers through the gap “Oh, and the least you could do is pay for dinner tonight. I’ll wait in the lobby for you at 8. Don’t be late.” 

Yuri waits for the door to actually close and the boy’s footsteps to walk away to throw himself back into the bed, chuckling against the fabric. He doesn’t understand why, but suddenly he’s so. Fucking. Happy. 

He hears the distinctive sound of the phone crashing softly against the carpet and twists his body to let his head hang off of the mattress to look for it, stretching his arm as far as he can to get it. He’s not gonna give up the bed just now: a lot has happened today and he wasn't exactly lying before. The flight was really shitty and cramped. He plans on staying  in bed browsing through his social media until he has to prepare for dinner. 

There’s a new notification.

_ >Operation “retrieve the leash” has been achieved _

_ >Seriously, is he gonna hate me for this? _

 

_ <Don’t worry, dude. I’ve got it.  _

 

The guy might be dull, but he’s not half bad. And the plan is running smoothly. 

He can’t wait for the closing ceremony.

 

* * *

 

He can’t believe he’s kicked himself so much about such a little thing. Yuri would slap his past self if he could, repeatedly yelling at him that it’s alright, his friend will spend every minute of his free time with him. 

Because he does. Otabek somehow manages to get two dinners instead of one out of the blond, yet Yuri doesn’t dare to question it. He has to see that impressive performance live and, let’s be honest, he would never say no to spending some more time around his friend. 

Of course, Otabek hasn’t taken him out out of kindness: Yuri knows this when he sees the incredibly expensive and awkwardly posh restaurant he’s driven to the first night. He can’t help but think it would be the perfect place for Viktor, the arrogant asshole. 

They’re both slightly uncomfortable, shifting on their seat at the sight of every completely unrecognizable item on the menu. They play their part perfectly anyways. They always do.

And Yuri doesn’t forget about it the night after, when they end up in front of a really small and romantic candlelit place just outside the incessant rumble of the city. It reminds him of their post GPF banquet breakfast in a small coffeeshop at Pyeongchang, where the waitress suggested they “looked so good together” and Otabek wouldn’t let it go. He teased him all night taking Yuri’s hand on his every time the waitress came around. Yuri still can’t even remember what they had for breakfast that day; he was too busy trying to stop his heart from bursting out of his chest and his face from turning beet red in embarrassment every time his friend touched him. He’s positive he failed the latter miserably, mostly because of Otabek’s hardly subtle mockery. 

Yuri tries to play his friend this time, letting their waiter know they’re boyfriends. It’s mostly out of revenge and definitely NOT because the employee tried to openly flirt with Otabek as soon as they got to the booth. Otabek is slightly embarrassed, sure: he has trouble keeping his gaze up and a fine blush is dusting his cheeks. But it doesn’t stop him from raising the bets up. He takes Yuri’s hand as the waiter comes up to leave the check on the table, and kisses his knuckles tenderly. The waiter huffs and turns around to leave a bit too quick, as Yuri’s breath catches in his throat and his heart skips a beat. He tries to control his surprise, until the waiter finally leaves, to punch his friend on the arm. 

“You’re going way too far with this!” He wants to sound offended, angry, he really does, but what comes out of his mouth resembles begging for mercy more than an actual scolding. He frowns at his own voice, first, and at the open laughter of his friend later.

“You started this game. Don’t be such a sore loser, love.”  Otabek reaches for Yuri’s hand again, but the blond hides it under the table. “And I believe I won. So you’re paying.” He gets up and goes around the booth to practically  _ purr _ in Yuri’s ear. “I’ll get the bike. Hurry up, ok?”

Yuri feels his heart pounding in his ear and a sudden heatwave enveloping him the moment he feels the boy’s breath tickling his skin and  _ he’s sure the weather wasn’t this stupidly hot before _ . He takes his wallet out muttering curses in between his clenched teeth, his hands clumsy as they fiddle around with the money. He suddenly loses his grasp on basic math and doesn’t even know how much money he’s leaving on the table, only that it’s way too much, and gets up to look for the stupid asshole waiting by the stupid bike and  _ the little shit, who does he think he is? _

He walks up to the bike to see Otabek who smiles a little side smirk when their eyes lock, and the word resonates in his head again, pounding with an incessant rhythm. Love. He knows it’s a game, they’ve played it before, jokingly flirting over Skype, but it’s so different in person, so, so…

So fucking real. 

He tries to keep the need to touch him again, to let Otabek’s lips near his skin again, way down and out of his mind. He still can’t sleep well that night, brushing his knuckles with his hands. 

But he’ll make the Kazakh pay for this.

 

* * *

 

The eagerness doesn’t abandon him for an instant: Yuri get impressively close to his own record on his short skate, and does wonderfully on his free program, according to the commentators , “filled with an urge and a thrive so few can direct this well”. Otabek follows closely with an impressive performance in both instances, snatching the silver for himself and letting a centered but not so skillful Guang Hong Ji take bronze. 

Yuri can’t stop fidgeting on the podium. He’s been in the spotlight several times since his Junior years, but this one’s different: he needs it all to end quickly so he can see it. Not on a grainy YouTube video from years back, recorded with a low resolution cellphone camera from a fixed angle. He needs to see it live.

He needs to know if Otabek will wear it again. Just because it’s completely ridiculous. Because it is. And he knows his friend is way too shy for it. 

He doesn’t speak to him about it. Leo should have left the costume in his room by now. Every detail of it. Even that curious item that wasn’t actually included on it, but fuck, Yuri needs to see it. 

He doesn’t even understand the eagerness, he just  _ does _ . 

They don’t have dinner together that night, since Otabek will be skating the morning after; instead, Yuri texts him goodnight early as a reminder to himself to not wake him up in the middle of the night. 

Otabek answers way too quickly.

> _ You do realize the actual costume didn’t have a choker, right? _

_ < dont be a coward _

_ > I’m putting my reputation on the line for you. I wouldn't call that cowardice _

_ < well I will. Sex it up or theres no reward _

 

What. 

He reads his own words and every tone of red crawls onto his face.

What.

He just asked his best friend to flirt with him. In front of an audience. On live television. 

_ Something Viktor would do.  _

And Otabek’s not answering either. He’s read it, but he’s not answering. 

Fuck.

He’s doomed. He’s fucked up big this time. All he can do now is wait until tomorrow.

He rolls in his bed for hours that night.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with a strange feeling in his stomach. Nauseating. 

He takes his phone from under the scrambled sheets and checks his notifications. Nothing too interesting to see.

He opens up his chat with Otabek.

_ Sex it up. _ The feeling comes back, stronger than ever. He drops the phone and covers his face with his hands, groaning loudly. Such an idiot. How could he?

He has to know what happens now, for better or for worse. He gets up. 

 

The bleachers slowly fill up with people: this exhibition was planned way out of program, so there hasn’t been an announcement on it. No one knows who’s skating. Yuri still knows they’re waiting for the fucking living legend and his piggy to fly all the way out here out of the blue just for them. 

Viktor would. Good thing he hasn’t thought about it. 

The rink goes dark as a figure glides into the center: the commentators mention something about “surprise program” and “unique song” but Yuri is not really listening. He’s trying to see through the shadows. 

The lights go up, and he can see clearly. The thigh leather-like jeans, the black shirt that grows translucent on his back, letting him see every muscle twitch every time he moves, the patent leather fingerless gloves.  _ The shiny leather choker. _

He can feel the audience gasp collectively at the sight of him. He can hear it because he too has stopped breathing for a moment. That costume is old: Otabek was younger, leaner back then. Yuri is sure that five years ago those pants didn’t contour his thighs so clearly as they do now, that that shirt didn’t fit so tight that every slight motion clearly reflected on his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine to his lower back. He brushes his hair out of his face just to have an excuse to hide somehow and pull his hood up. His heart is racing like crazy and his hands turn to fists in his pockets unconsciously. There’s still silence on the rink but he can only hear his accelerated pulse and the whispered, no, purred word on his ear. Love. 

Fuck that asshole. He has no right. He’s made a mess out of him with a  _ word _ . Shit.

Yuri recognizes the first beats and his breaths catches on that first jump. He knows it, he has watched that damn video over and over for the past few nights in awe. It was cool in video, sure, but live it’s breathtaking. 

Otabek moves confidently, sliding across the ice, mixing well known jumps and combinations with powerful footwork, jumps and spins Yuri’s never seen on a rink before. The blond holds his breath at every twist, covers his mouth to repress his shameful squeal at every jump, bites his lip at every second the Kazakh’s shirt lifts up, even barely. 

He’s a fucking mess. Good thing he changed his team jacket for a pitch black hoodie.

He feels Otabek’s eyes piercing through him for a second, as [he slowly touches the ice with both hands and slides down, left leg flexed under him while the other stretches left](http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html#spiderman) , marking every muscles from his calf to his thigh and up to… He feels his breathing go shallow, his tongue playing in his mouth, restless. Those damn pants. Those damn fucking moves. He wants to rip that costume apart just to get his sanity back. He crosses his legs and puts his hands in his pockets, and presses the heels of his hands onto his crotch.  _ Control yourself.  _

This was his idea, but his idea is gonna fucking murder him.

The song falls into a softer bridge and the steps slow down for a moment; Otabek seizes the momentum to [kick up with enough force to lift himself in the air](http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html#540kick)  and lands down into a sitting spin, that develops into a [cantilever](http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html#cantilever)  and  _ holy shit fuck so this is what a heart attack feels like. _ Yuri can’t keep his eyes away, almost running to the railing not to miss one second, one detail of it. 

The female voice gains power and Yuri know it’s close to the end now, way too drawn into the performance to notice his hood has come down during his running and he’s clutching the railing so hard his knuckles are turning white. 

Otabek pulls his body down to lift himself up,[ kicking with his right leg through the air, left one following the motion](http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html#ch_gainer) , to close the landing with a combination spin until the voice finally quiets and [he stops, backwards](http://www.nagyerdeikorisok.com/tricktionary.html#backwards_stop) , chin down and arms stretched away from his body yet down, palms looking back. 

Silence.

Yuri feels only the turmoil of his stomach, tingling, and the frantic pulls of his heart. 

The audience roars.

The whole audience. 

Yuri doesn’t even notice he’s squealing profanities at the air out of excitement until the only one that actually  _ understands Russian  _ shoots his head up. Straight at him. Who doesn’t have his hood on anymore. 

Shit. 

He runs down to meet his friend, crashing into two or three strangers along the way and getting some colorful words out of them without even stopping to reply. The second he sees Otabek practically surrounded by girls, shoulders flinched up and hands in his pockets, as if he’s trying to run off somehow, the anger blazes up again. Yuri convinces himself it’s because of his dear friend’s clear uncomfort. Not jealousy. Never jealousy. It’s not like he  _ likes  _ him. 

Right?

He looks for any ideas that can help him pull Otabek out of the mob of screaming ladies in heat (because the comments they’re making are not professional remarks. At all.). He finds none; Otabek looks at him and his mind goes blank. He moves instinctively.

Someone should have told him at some point his instincts are shit for public relations and media. 

Yuri pushes some teenager away and grabs Otabek by his collar, passing two of his fingers in between the warm leather and the soft trembling skin. He pulls back.

Silence.

Yuri’s sure he’s in the middle of a screeching crowd of fangirls, but all he can hear is silence, and Otabek breathing softly against his face, their lips pressed hard together. He pulls away to bite Otabek’s lip and smiles while tentatively parting the older boy’s lips with his tongue. Otabek answers quickly and hungrily, taking him firmly by the waist and pulling him against his body as he deepens the kiss. Yuri cups the boy’s jaw with his free hand; he can feel a small whimper escape his mouth. And a squeal.

That’s not his. He suddenly remembers.

He pulls away, taking his fingers off of the choker and looks around: there’re probably a dozen, maybe more, girls with their phones in hand. Taking pictures. Filming. Fucking cheering. He wants to run away, but Otabek doesn’t let go. 

“About that talk…” his voice goes mellow, deep, and a shiver runs through Yuri’s back. 

“Wherever you want, but make it right now.” He wants to sound confident, like he knows what he’s doing. His voice shakes, his knees still weak from the storm of emotions he’s just had in, what, 10 minutes?  _ This guy is gonna be the cause of his death, he’s sure of it. _

But that doesn’t mean he gets to win. Yuri is a sore loser after all.

“Just one thing,” He wraps his fingers around the goddamned choker, “Leave this on.”


End file.
